


Lumière, darling

by WendigoBaby



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: (It's Ronan), Adam is Ronan's dream, Fluff, LITERALLY, M/M, Swearing, alternative meetings, pynchweek16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 23:54:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7778575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendigoBaby/pseuds/WendigoBaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The words feel like a dare and an invitation at once and this time it's Ronan who smiles, knife-sharp and wild.</p><p>"So if I tell you to kiss me, what will you do?" </p><p>It's far-fetched and stupid and really, really gay, but Ronan is in his dream and nobody can judge him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lumière, darling

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm sorry I'm late, but I've been meaning to write this anyway and PynchWeek just gave me the right excuse. I hope you enjoy!

It's a late evening on a Wednesday and it should feel different, because there's snow stuck to the windows in Monmouth Manufacturing and there are meters and meters of fairy lights hanging around Gansey's bed; they illuminate the small replica of his beloved Henrietta, giving it almost the same glow it has when Gansey talks about its misteries.

 

It should feel different, but it doesn't.

 

It doesn't, because they're fighting again. Well, Ronan is fighting and Gansey just takes it, leans back against the edge of his desk and Ronan watches his grip on it turn white- knuckled for a moment when a long string of inventive and progressively grosser curses leave Ronan's mouth.

 

Ronan wants Gansey to be angry, to yell back at him, to slam doors and kick at everything in his reach. He, regrettably, once asked Gansey: _Aren't you angry?_ And before his golden boy of a friend could finish, Ronan did it for him, a bitter smile painted across the split lip.

  
_You're not angry, you're disappointed._

 

It stings much, much worse than anger.

 

It's the same again - Gansey in the full school uniform, hair artfully mussed and it's like he came out of a picture in their textbook, while Ronan's missing his tie and there's blood on the collar of his shirt.

 

Ronan closes his eyes and pictures Gansey's concerned expression, brows furrowed in sadness. They stand under the fluorescent lights of Monmouth and the silence is threatening to blow Ronan's eardrums out if his music hasn't done it yet. Dustmotes dance in the air and Ronan rubs his hand over the buzzcut, the familiar scrape of short hairs not helping with the need to escape, to leave, maybe find Kavinsky and race until he forgets the look on Gansey's face.

 

"I know you can do this, Ronan. Come on, just try one more time. For me, please, for your own future." Gansey's voice is soft, defeated almost. It feels like he's trying to talk to something he's afraid of. Ronan curls his fingers into the skin of his head and there's heat building within his ribcage, overflowing and spilling out of his mouth. He's a hurricane destroying everything is his path.

 

"I fucking _can't_ , Gansey!" He yells, lip curled into a savage snarl and stomps over to his door, wrenching it open. "Get it through your thick skull, Aglionby is hell for me. I'd burn it down at the first opportunity." The slam that comes as a period is final and Gansey sags against the desk, rubs his eyes.

 

Inside the room, Ronan grabs the Latin textbook from his bed and throws it against the wall, then repeats the process with anything and everything he finds in his room with vicious passion until he tires himself out. Soon, he's breathing heavily through gritted teeth and his room's a mess. Ronan's a mess too. He knows it, even though Gansey never says it out loud.

 

But Ronan knows; he's heard Gansey and Declan talking enough times to know that his brother thinks of him as the black sheep of the Lynch family, the rotten egg, the one with ragged scars on his wrists and faith he's fighting to keep for everybody's sake.

 

Ronan throws himself down onto his bed, jacket and all, presses his head into the creased pillow to try and relieve some of the pressure building beneath the bone of his skull. He wants out and without booze and cars the only way to have that is to sleep. It's dangerous, because in his brain there's something much worse than guilt and self-deprecation - an amalgamate of everything Ronan considers putrid about the world and himself.

 

The air in his bedroom is stale and faintly smelling of some strange mix between expensive cologne, undone laundry and old bricks as he lays in the dark, looks at nothing in particular and listens for the sound of shuffling footsteps over the pounding of his heart in his ears. He's never learned how to be good, so instead he closes his eyes and dreams.

 

He wakes up with the familiarity of walking into your home after a long day; the forest whispers his name - _GreywarenGreywarenGreywaren_ , but Ronan doesn't really pay attention. He's not here today to take anything, he just wants to sit down by the creek and skip stones on the water until his body jostles him awake. Long grass tickles the pads of his hands as he wades in it, path worn into his memory. A bird, that Ronan's sure doesn't exist, chirps a tune. Summer sun shines down, warming whatever of his skin it can reach. Faint wind beckons him forward, tugs on the edges of his jacket.

 

When he reaches the creek, it's shaded by a canopy of old twisted trees, a patchwork of uneven spots of gold on a dark canvas made of stones. Just as he's about to sit down and relive the fight with Gansey to hate himself even more, he hears steps. At first Ronan mistakes them for the eager trickle of water, but a second later the sound is unmistakeable and he startles upright, almost slips.

 

"Holy fuck." The words come out despite his will and the creature on the other side of the creek smiles, making Ronan's heart trip over itself. He blinks, once, twice, _five_ times and the creature doesn't go away. Ronan swallows down the anxiety built up in his throat as he marvels at the boy- yes, the dream thing is seemingly a boy his age. He's otherworldly and elegant and his intense gaze makes Ronan want to lower his eyes. He doesn't though, he stares instead.

 

Sun-kissed skin with constellations of coffee-brown freckles on high cheekbones. Shadows in the hollows of the boy's eyes and the dip beneath his lower lip. Tan skin and brown hair illuminated like a crown around his head and blue eyes, the colour of a stormy, frothed sea. The delicate line of his throat, the awkward way his thumbs curl into the palms, the nonchalance in the way he leans on a tree trunk. Worn clothes, the feeling of home, magic.

 

Reality folds itself around Ronan and suddenly a moment without this wonderful stranger doesn't exist in his memory; it's like he's always been there, hidden just out of Ronan's field of view, with his headstrong gaze and the amused quirk of chapped lips.

 

"Hello, Greywaren." The boy says and there's a honey-like warm tinge to his voice that makes Ronan think of Henrietta and sweet-tea and fields full of golden grain. Ronan gives him his best glare.

 

"Who the hell are you?" He asks, trying to keep some semblance of confidence, but he feels as if he's missed an important note. It makes him even more frustrated and he shoves his hands in his pockets with indignation, more for show of power than anything. 

 

Still, Blue Eyes only gives him an incredulous look as he pushes off the tree and disappears behind it.

  
"Don't you know?" He asks, voice sounding more afar and Ronan feels obliged to follow the southern drawl. He jumps over the creek and catches up to Blue Eyes, who doesn't seem wary of Ronan at all, face a lake surface without a single wrinkle. Ronan feels even more thrown off guard than before.

 

"Tell me, smartass."

 

"I'm your dream." Blue Eyes says as if it's obvious and smiles mysteriously. Ronan stops and the dream stops and they stare at each other as Ronan tries to make sense of anything. He's in his own head, for fuck's sake. The trees around them laugh at Ronan's expense.

 

After a pensive moment, Ronan decides to give Blue Eyes the benefit of the doubt. He seems harmless and Ronan is in need of some new company that doesn't get on his case every five minutes. He can always wake up from this; he hopes.

 

"Okay." He scuffs the toe of his boot in the ground. "What's your name, then?"

 

Blue Eyes smiles again and Ronan doesn't like the fascination settling in his gut.

  
"You haven't thought of one yet."

 

 _Ah._ It's Ronan's job to name his own dream. He looks up at the blinding sun just to not look at his apparent dream creature, squints his eyes and goes through every name he's ever heard.

 

When he looks down again, he notices the red Coca-Cola shirt amidst the spots dancing in his vision.

  
"Adam." The first man on Earth, the first boy to become real in Ronan's mind; it adds up.

  
Adam nods his head and then unceremoniously lays down in the clearing they're in, twines his fingers together and rests them on his stomach. Ronan sits down cross-legged to his side and watches the way the tendons around freckled wrists tense when his dream creature moves his fingers.

 

"You were angry when you came into the dream." Adam speaks after a beat of silence, blue never leaving blue, sea versus the sky.

  
"No shit." Ronan barks out hastily and looks away; he doesn't want to be reminded of the original reason he's here.

  
"Are you still?" Adam asks and, _Jesus fucking Christ_ , does he have pretty hands. Knobby and work-worn, but Ronan thinks they would be soft if he were to grab them. He doesn't, but instead he thinks and comes to a simple answer: _no_. He's not angry, but only tired, still beneath his skin for once. He shakes his head once and Adam smiles thoughtfully.

 

But now that he's settled down, question start to form and Ronan wants answers.

  
"So, are you mine? Will you listen if I tell you to do something?"

  
Adam bites his lip and Ronan's momentarily distracted.

  
"I'm yours, but there's a difference between a slave and a companion." Adam's fingers are playing with the edge of his shirt, glimpses of skin beneath catching the sunlight. "I could do it or I could tell you to go fuck yourself."

 

The words feel like a dare and an invitation at once and this time it's Ronan who smiles, knife-sharp and wild.

  
"So if I tell you to kiss me, what will you do?" It's far-fetched and stupid and really, really gay, but Ronan is in his dream and nobody can judge him.

 

Adam looks over at him, brows raised in a mock offense.

  
"Isn't that a little egoistical? To try and kiss a piece of your own mind, Greywaren?" It probably is, but Adam doesn't have to know.

 

"Don't call me that."

  
"Okay, _Ronan_."

  
Ronan likes the sound of his name in Adam's mouth. He smirks, pulls up one knee and rests his cheek on it.

  
"You're avoiding my question."

  
"And you're avoiding answering mine." Adam pushes into a sitting position and the wind blows through his hair; some strands fall over his forehead and Ronan wants to brush them away. It's strange for him, to feel something other than anger.

  
"I don't give a shit. Now, your turn, asshole." If Ronan has to be honest with himself, he's afraid of either of the answers.

 

Adam takes his sweet time, just looks and looks and _looks_ and Ronan feels like he's being pulled apart into his basic elements.

  
"You know what-" He starts as he gets up, but then there's a hand around his wrist and warm, chapped lips against his and Ronan is very aware that this is a dream. Nothing real could be this wonderful. He presses in harder, grabs onto the shirt to pull Adam against him, but it's ending too soon. Adam pulls away, just barely, his lips brushing against Ronan's when he speaks. Ronan's face feels hot and he wants Adam to shut up and kiss him more.

  
"Come back soon." Adam says in a whisper and when Ronan's eyes fly back open, he's back in his room at Monmouth. Frustrated, he wants to open his window and yell _'fuck'_ to anybody that is listening, but he's paralyzed. He brought something back.

  
A minute or two ticks by and Ronan uses the time to catch his breath and calm his heart. Kissing Adam felt like driving 200 miles per hour and he wants to do it again. And again. _And again._

  
When he can finally move, he prods with the tips of his fingers at the fabric he's holding. It's bizarrely soft and Ronan doesn't have to turn on the light to know what it is.

  
It's the red Coca-Cola shirt.

  
Ronan smiles. Dreaming might be his new favourite pastime.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can find me on tumblr under the name 'maghnvsbane' <3


End file.
